


Till It Happens to You

by orestesfasting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blowjobs, Coming Out, Discovery of Sexuality, First Time, Fluff, M/M, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:18:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orestesfasting/pseuds/orestesfasting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s the occasion?”</p><p>Oliver let out a short puff of air through his nose, looking sideways at George and grimacing. “Do you mean to ask me why I’m drinking alone in my dorm on a Friday night?”</p><p>For some reason, George had a sudden urge to laugh. After more than five years of knowing Wood, the truth was that he really knew nothing about him at all. On the Quidditch pitch, he was determined, calculating, and a little bit obsessive; seeing him now, drinking alone in his room, slouching and stubbly, George felt a sudden fascination for the boy sitting next to him. The corners of George’s mouth twitched in spite of himself as he wondered what else he didn’t know about Oliver Wood.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out a bit croaky. He cleared his throat. “I guess that is what I’m asking.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till It Happens to You

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to express my unconditional love and appreciation for George Weasley and to satisfy my headcanon that he is 100% hella homo. This is my first fic on ao3 and only the second piece of fanfiction I've ever written so any kind of constructive criticism would be welcome!
> 
> This is also an AU where Oliver is only one year older than the twins instead of two (mostly because I was uncomfy at the thought of writing smut about a 15-year-old (spoiler alert there will be smut)). The Golden Trio is in their fourth year (but the Triwizard Tournament is nonexistent lol), the twins are in their sixth year, and Wood is in his seventh. Also, I made up a few of the spells so if you don't recognize them that's why.
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by Corinne Bailey Rae.

His feet left the ground with a sluggish but determined kick, the wind whistled through the twigs on the end of his 1986 Silver Arrow, and as he made his way through the air on a jerky, staggering incline, George Weasley wondered how Firewhiskey could possibly be legal. He had swallowed a large shot of the stuff five minutes previously, as per the terms of his lost bet with Fred—Gregory Goyle _had_ in fact eaten the Nosebleed Nougat Fred had levitated over to the thickset boy’s seat at the Slytherin table at breakfast that morning. In retrospect, George wasn’t quite sure what made him doubt that even Goyle would be thick enough to grab an edible-looking object floating inches in front of his face and put it in his mouth; experience had shown him that the opposite had always been the case, and this time was no different. As the Gryffindor Quidditch team rose groggily from their table and began trudging out of the Great Hall in their scarlet and gold robes, a strangled cry rose from the other side of the hall and Goyle’s face was clearly discernible among the faces of his laughing peers, eyes wide and pudgy blood-stained hands covering his nose.

“Oh, bless him,” Fred cooed while the rest of the Gryffindor team burst into laughter as they exited the Great Hall. “I was actually kinda rooting for him this time. Ah well.” He reached a freckled hand into his scarlet robes and pulled out a dented, rusty-looking flask. “Bottoms up, Georgie.”

The team had just exited the castle and was making its way across the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch, with Fred and George bringing up the rear. Harry was in the middle of an animated conversation with Alicia Spinnet while Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell giggled loudly over something Angelina had just whispered in her friend’s ear. As George took the flask from his twin, his eyes darted towards the head of curly dark hair at the front of the line.

“Relax, would you?” Fred said, following his gaze and clapping George on the back. “It’s only practice, it’s only a shot; Wood won’t even know the difference.”

George sighed. “I still say we should come up with a better way to bet,” he said, raising the flask to his lips. “Just because all our galleons are going towards our inventions doesn’t mean we should resort to _peer pressure_.” Fred knew he was using the term ironically, but he still rolled his eyes as George tilted his head back and let the cool, suddenly burning liquid hit the back of his throat.

* * *

Now, struggling to keep steady on his broom some 60 feet up in the air, George believed he finally knew the true meaning of regret. He shook his head vigorously, trying to sober up, and began to loop the pitch, clutching his beater’s club in his fist as though for balance.

“ _Hey_!” Harry shouted as George ran into the tail end of his Firebolt, spinning the Seeker around.

“Shit, s’rry, Harry!” George called as he continued on his way. He had been scanning the air for Bludgers and hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going. A loud burst of laughter some feet above him told him Fred had witnessed the blunder. Grumbling, George zig-zagged off in search of more Bludgers.

After a loop around the pitch to clear his head, George saw one of the black balls tailing Angelina, who had the Quaffle in the crook of her arm and was racing to the goal posts. George took off after her, finally catching up and aiming a mighty whack of his club at the Bludger, which was sent zooming off in the opposite direction. Pleased with himself for sobering up enough to execute such a blow, he allowed himself to watch as Angelina flew towards the golden hoops at the end of the pitch, where Oliver Wood was hovering, a cat ready to spring. Angelina hurled the Quaffle towards the leftmost hoop, and with agility the likes of which George had seen only at the World Cup, Wood raced from his position at the center hoop to meet the ball.

George watched the scene fold out before him as though in slow motion. Both of Wood’s hands left the handle of his broom as he reached with his entire body; every muscle seemed to be intent on propelling him forward. He caught the Quaffle in the tips of his gloved fingers, nearly pitching himself off the broom as he did so. But his legs stayed wrapped tight around it, so that rather than falling off the front end Wood did a forward flip on his broom, ending right-side-up, the Quaffle in his hands, an expression of pure triumph playing across his face.

“Nice one, Oliver!” Fred called from somewhere near the middle of the field, while Wood tossed the Quaffle back to Angelina and glided back to his position at the center goal post.

George let out a deep breath, realizing only then that he hadn’t been breathing the entire time he had been watching Wood. The Keeper reached his muscular arms over his head in a full-body stretch, then rolled his shoulders in slow circles. All the while his eyes were narrowed, scanning the field unblinkingly. George was just wondering how someone so burly could be so goddamn _graceful_ when a female voice suddenly screamed, “ _George_!”

George whipped his head around, searching for the cause of the alarm. Then he saw it—a Bludger zooming along at breakneck speed some twenty feet from him, heading straight for Oliver Wood.

George’s stomach plunged down to somewhere around his knees. Cursing himself for being such a daydreaming drunken idiot, he steeled himself and leaned low over his broom, tightening his grip on his club as he sped forward. Meanwhile, Wood sat perfectly still as the Bludger and the Beater hurtled toward him, knowing that it was useless trying to escape since the black ball would merely follow him until it had hit its mark. The Keeper’s only hope was the red-headed sixteen-year-old right on the Bludger’s tail. At length George caught up to it some ten feet away from Wood; he raised his club, preparing for a mighty backhanded swipe. Wood shut his eyes tight.

 _WHAM_! Wood opened his eyes in time to see the Bludger hurtling away in the opposite direction and the Beater’s gleeful face zooming past him. George had been so intent on derailing the Bludger that he had forgotten to slow down. With a mighty ear-splitting crack, George flew head-first into the center goalpost. He felt his Silver Arrow snap beneath him in the same moment he felt his nose break.

As he fell 60 feet towards the ground after the splintery pieces of his broken broomstick, George was vaguely aware of a large figure racing after him. When George imagined he must be seconds away from the imminent death that awaited him on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, the figure above him drew a wand out of his scarlet robes.

“ _Arresto momentum_!”

George felt himself slowing, as though he had just opened an invisible parachute. He came to a halt six inches from the ground. Seconds later, he heard a pair of feet hit the ground and he turned his head to see Oliver Wood dismounting his broom and stowing his wand back in his robes, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“George, hey, are you alright?” Wood asked, rushing to his side and looming over him. The olive-toned skin of his cheeks darkened slightly as he flushed, realizing it was a bit of a stupid question.

“Dever bedder,” George muttered thickly, carefully wiping his broken nose with his hand, which came back covered in blood. He groaned and rolled over, breaking the spell that had kept him suspended, and plopped onto his hands and knees on the grass. A pair of hands grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him up.

“Merlin’s fucking _nutsack_ , George, what were you thinking?” Fred demanded, spinning his twin around and inspecting his nose. “Looks broken. Let’s go clean you up, come on.” He put his arm around George’s shoulders and began leading him off the pitch.

“I’ll come too,” Wood said, running to catch up with them. “You four keep practicing,” he called over his shoulder to Harry, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie, who were standing in a group and looking concerned. “Harry can play Keeper.”

“Do’d worry aboud it, Oliver,” George said once Wood was walking in stride with him and Fred. “You do’d wad to biss pracdice.”

“No, I want to come,” Wood said stoically. There was another note in his voice that George didn’t at first recognize. Then, “After all, the reason you ran head-first into a metal goal post was to save me from a Bludger. Makes me sort of responsible, eh?”

George began to protest, but Fred interrupted him. “Oh, just let the man pay his penance, Georgie. The day Oliver Wood gets talked out of doing something will be the day Severus Snape washes his hair.”

George stared resolutely at the ground, confused as to why his cheeks were burning. They walked the rest of the way to the changing room in silence.

“Okay, first things first,” Wood said importantly once they had sat George down on a bench. “We should try to stop the bleeding.” He began pacing. “Um. Oh. I know.” He pulled his wand once again out of his robes and turned to George, who looked at him apprehensively.

“ _Obturo_! Oh. That’s not right.”

“I do’d dow whad you bean,” George said lightly. Instead of stopping the bleeding, the spell had caused his nostrils to seal shut, as though an invisible thumb and forefinger were pinching his nose.

Fred sighed exasperatedly. “I think, _first things first_ , we should fix his nose.” He pointed his wand at George’s face. “ _Episkey_!”

There was an audible crack and George gave a startled yell, but when he took his hands away from his face, his crooked nose appeared to be straight once again.

“Well that worked,” George said clearly.

“Good. Good,” Wood said curtly. “That would’ve been my first move too.” Fred and George exchanged a glance. “But _now_ we should get rid of that blood.” Wood crouched down in front of George and pointed his wand at him once again. “ _Exsorbeo_.”

George felt the hot, sticky wetness leave his face as Wood siphoned off the blood. Wood’s thick eyebrows furrowed in concentration; George could hear him breathing shallowly. Their eyes met. George had always assumed Wood had brown eyes, dark like his own. He now noticed that they were hazel—a dark greenish-brown flecked with shimmering gold. George looked away quickly. Seconds later, Wood stood up and cleared his throat.

“Well, uh, that ought to do it.”

“Thanks,” George said, standing up and passing a hand over his nose—it came away clean. Wood turned to go.

“And—Oliver—” George called haltingly after him. “Thanks for, you know. Making sure I didn’t become a puddle of gore out there. When I fell.”

Wood waved his hand impatiently. “What’s a Quidditch captain who can’t even keep his teammates from dying during practice?” He left the room.

George watched the door for a second, then muttered, “I guess I should go gather my broom shards....” He turned to Fred.

Over the years, Fred and George had become masters at nonverbal communication between themselves. One look from one of them would be all the other needed in order to know how his twin was feeling, what he thought of their current situation, how best to cause more disruption. But there in the changing room, seconds after Wood had left, Fred fixed his twin with a look that George was completely unable to read.

A classic Fred Weasley grin replaced the curious expression after only a second—George might have imagined it entirely. “Looks like you’ll be rocking one of the school’s Shooting Stars for a while, eh?” Fred said lightly. “We can trade off every other game or something. As if an ’86 Silver Arrow is much better....”

He left. George stared at the floor for a moment, wondering if he was still feeling the effects of the Firewhiskey after all, then followed after him.

 

******************************************************************************

 

“For the last time, Ron, it’s not spew, it’s S.P.E.W.—the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare!”

Hermione slammed down her still-wet quill, splattering tiny droplets of ink on the notebook in which she kept track of S.P.E.W. members. She was sitting on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, using a low coffee table as a desk, while Harry, Ron, George, and Lee Jordan lounged on the sofa behind her. Hermione whipped her head around and glared at Ron.

“And don’t think I don’t know you’re only taunting me about this whole thing because you’re afraid that the elves will stop making the food you stuff your face with at every chance you get!”

“Damn,” Lee Jordan said, snapping his fingers appreciatively. “Snaps to that.”

“In all fairness, Hermione,” George put in, interrupting Ron as the latter tried to protest this accusation, “I think most would agree that those little elves, bless their souls, are pretty happy where they are.” Lee nodded solemnly while Hermione narrowed her eyes at them both. “Probably be insulted by the mere suggestion of accepting pay and clothes. They’re quite proud, wee though they are.”

“Well,” Hermione huffed angrily, turning her back on them and bending low over her notebook again, “That doesn’t mean I can’t try convincing them.”

“And they’ll probably be as stubborn about it as she is,” Ron muttered to Harry. He stretched his long arms high above his head and gave a mighty yawn, clearly tired of the subject. “Harry tells me you broke your face on the Quidditch pitch today,” he said, turning to George and struggling to keep the grin off his face. “Didn’t anyone bother to fix it?”

“That’s a pretty funny joke you just made there, Ronniekins,” said George, whose nose was healed and looked completely normal. “Come up with it all by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny.”

“I am funny.”

“Reckon I looked more like you than Fred for a while there.”

“Funny.”

“I am funny. Where is Fred, anyway?” George scanned the crowded common room for a glimpse of flaming red hair, but found only Percy, sitting at a desk on the other side of the room with his nose an inch away from the parchment he was scribbling on.

“He’s over there,” Lee said, pointing to the spiral stairs that led to the boys’ dormitories. “Well, most of him is, anyway.”

George looked and saw Angelina sitting on the stairs, laughing next to a headless body that was gesticulating wildly.

“Trying to win her heart with Headless Hats, I see,” George said fondly, while the others burst into laughter. “Classic.”

“The poor thing tries so hard,” said a new voice. The group looked around and saw Ginny standing nearby, her long, bright red hair tied up in a high ponytail, her expression sardonic. By her side stood a dreamy-looking blonde-haired girl wearing radish earrings and a necklace that appeared to be made out of Butterbeer caps. “At least they’re fucking now so it’s not quite as pitiful. Move over, George, or I’m gonna sit on you.”

“There’s no room for me to move—hey!”

Ginny plopped down on her brother’s lap, strands of her hair getting in his mouth.

“Come here, Luna, you can sit on me,” she said to the blonde girl, patting her knee and ignoring George’s protests. “You’ve all met my friend Luna Lovegood, haven’t you? From Ravenclaw?”

“What, you mean Loony—” Ron began, but was silenced immediately by a dangerous look from his sister.

“That is what some people call me, I suppose,” Luna said airily, perching delicately on Ginny’s lap, the radishes swinging side to side under her ears. “It doesn’t make much sense to me—one day you’re just helpfully warning people to lay their shoes upside down at night so Nargles don’t burrow inside, the next day they’re all calling you loony.... Quibbler, Harry? I’ve just finished reading it.” She pulled a worn magazine out from the sleeve of her robes and handed it to Harry, who was sitting next to her. On the cover, a rhinoceros-like animal with a spiraling white horn was pawing the ground menacingly. “That’s a Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” Luna said, pointing to the beast and nodding knowingly. “One of the most elusive of magical creatures. My father and I are going on an expedition to Sweden to look for them this summer.”

“Erm, thanks, Luna,” Harry said, smiling awkwardly and beginning to leaf through the magazine under the gaze of Luna’s protuberant blue eyes.

“Ginny,” George said suddenly, poking his head out from behind his sister’s shoulder, “how did you know Fred and Angelina were fucking? I thought I was the only one who knew about that.”

“Well, not anymore, you’re not,” Hermione said dryly, not looking up from the S.P.E.W. notebook she was still writing in.

“Please, George,” Ginny said with dramatic exasperation. “Have you ever seen anything so obvious?”

“I guess not,” George murmured, glancing towards the stairs again. Fred’s head was visible again and he seemed to have calmed down; he and Angelina were holding hands, and as he whispered something in her ear her face broke into a wide smile. George felt a pang in his chest that he didn’t quite understand—it felt like jealousy, but who could he be jealous of? Certainly not Fred, since George felt nothing for Angelina but a vague and untested friendship formed on the Quidditch pitch. And he was confident enough in the strength of his bond with Fred that he never felt threatened by the close presence of another person in his twin’s life. Before he could give much more thought to the matter, a loud belch from Ron and an exclamation of disgust from Hermione brought him back to the present moment. He suddenly became aware of the weight of Ginny and Luna on his lap, pressing him into the sofa. His chest tightened; he felt claustrophobic—the urge to get out from underneath them was suddenly overwhelming.

“Hey, get up, Ginny, I’m calling quits on this sitting pile.”

Ginny and Luna shifted off of George’s lap as he stood up, then quickly took his spot on the crowded sofa, their sides pressed together.

“I’m gonna go stretch my legs,” George said to no one in particular, running a hand through his hair as he made his way through the mass of lounging Gryffindors strewn across the floor and furniture of the common room, not entirely sure where he was going. He soon decided on one of the fireplaces as a destination; he felt himself drawn to the increasing warmth as he came closer, though he hadn’t been feeling particularly cold. He stood there for a moment in front of the hearth, his mind wandering aimlessly as he watched the glowing embers. The fire suddenly crackled, sending tiny golden sparks drifting up the chimney along with the smoke. The sight of them stirred something in his memory, though he couldn’t put a finger on it and stopped trying after only a moment. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired.

“I didn’t take you for someone who spends his time staring into fires, contemplating life’s many mysteries.”

George’s eyes snapped open and he whipped his head around, searching for the source of the voice. His gaze came to rest on Oliver Wood’s grinning face, illuminated by the flickering glow of the fire. He was sitting at a small table by the wall a few feet to George’s right, wearing a snug-fitting black t-shirt and jeans, an open textbook and an ink-covered roll of parchment in front of him. His dark brown curls were disheveled, as though he had been running a hand through them repeatedly. George was reminded of the way his Quidditch captain always looked after dismounting his broom—windswept, a little exhausted; all that was missing was the wide-eyed look of exhilaration that remained etched on his face even after he had landed. His expression now looked a bit pained, and George wouldn’t have been surprised if it had everything to do with the fact that he was writing an essay rather than flying above the Quidditch pitch. 

“Don’t be so quick to flatter me, Oliver,” George said, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch. “For all you know I was thinking about where to plant my next dungbomb. Thought Percy’s bed seemed like a nice option.”

“Hmm, you know, I have to say I disagree,” said Wood. “And I’m sure that has nothing to do with the fact that I share a dormitory with him.”

“Oh, of course not. I know you’d never let your personal life get in the way of such important matters.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m a man of principle.”

George rubbed the back of his neck, feeling slightly awkward after their playful banter.

“Come sit,” Wood said, lifting his feet from where they were resting on the chair opposite him and gesturing to it. “I’m tired of writing this paper.”

“What’s it about?” George asked, sitting down across from Wood and crossing his arms on the table.

Wood sighed wearily. “It’s about the ways in which this one confusing-as-hell-theorem-I-can’t-even-pronounce has evolved from its beginnings in Greco-Roman-age Arithmancy practices to its modern-day usage.”

George raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t take you for an Arithmancy person.”

“I’m not,” Wood said grimly, tilting his chair back on two legs and staring at the ceiling, as though hoping for some sort of divine intervention to allow him reprieve from writing another sentence. “I’m more of a Potions person myself, believe it or not. My father was the one pushing Arithmancy—he thought that if I took it at N.E.W.T. level I’d see its importance and be dissuaded from going into professional Quidditch after graduation. Sort of backfired on him though, didn’t it?” he said, grinning as he tilted forward in his chair and brought its front two legs back down to the floor. “I hate Arithmancy more than ever now that I’m at N.E.W.T. level, and I got invited to tryout for Puddlemere United in two weeks.”

“Hey!” George said warmly, reaching across the table and giving Wood’s forearm a squeeze. “That’s incredible, Oliver! Congratulations.”

Wood smiled broadly, his eyes wandering to George’s hand resting on his bare arm. George let go quickly and retracted his arm back across the table, worrying that he had accidentally left it there a second longer than he should have. “Why haven’t you told the team yet?” he asked, eager to move past the exchange he already considered a mistake.

“Dunno,” Wood said, still staring absently at his forearm as though George had left a handprint there. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right moment and it just hasn’t come yet.” He paused. “You’re the first person I’ve told, actually.”

George blinked; for one of the very few times in his life up to that point, he didn’t know what to say.

“How’s your nose?” Wood asked suddenly, looking up and staring into George’s face intently. In the dim light of the flickering fire, the eyes George had discovered were hazel that morning appeared black as obsidian. He felt his stomach twist, not unpleasantly, but strangely.

“It’s––it’s fine,” he said, clearing his throat. He gave the end of his nose a flick. “Good as new, in fact.”

“Good,” Wood murmured, almost to himself. “That’s good.” He continued staring at George, to the point where the latter had to look away, wishing more than anything that he could read the other man’s thoughts. “You know, when you were chasing that Bludger that was coming at me....” Wood stopped, seeming unsure of how to continue. George stared fixedly at the grains in the wooden table, not wanting to think about the fact that he had flown headfirst into a goalpost in front of the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team that morning. “I’ve never seen you fly that fast,” Wood finished simply.

George looked up, surprised. “I was... angry at myself,” he said slowly, deliberately glossing over the fact that he had also been a bit drunk. “If I had been doing my job and paying attention, I would’ve gotten that Bludger long before it was three inches from your face.... As it was, I was distracted.”

“By what?” Wood was wearing an innocent boyish grin, as though he already knew the answer.

“Well, that save you made was pretty spectacular,” George admitted.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Wood sighed in mock wistfulness. “That’s really all I could think of when I saw that Bludger coming at me, you know. I thought, fuck, if this thing hits me and knocks me off my broom, that’ll be what people remember instead of that spectacular save.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help you there,” George said. “I mean, no one remembers your save, but at least I’m the one they’ll remember falling off my broom.”

Wood laughed, and George realized that he had never heard the sound of his Quidditch captain’s genuine laughter before. It was higher than his normally low register, and sounded much too musical to come from such a burly and quarrelsome-looking figure. George thought he quite liked the sound.

“Well, hey, listen,” Wood said once his chuckles had subsided. “If you ever want to borrow my broom....” He seemed to be searching for the right words; George waited patiently. “Like, if you ever just feel like flying around outside of practice, just let me know. Mine’s a Cleansweep Seven—it’s no Firebolt, but safe to say it beats out the school’s old Shooting Stars.”

“Thanks, Oliver,” George said appreciatively, “I’ll keep that in—”

“Oi! George!” It was Fred, calling from the other side of the room where he was still sitting with Angelina. He beckoned George impatiently.

George sighed, feeling suddenly irritated at Fred for a reason he couldn’t quite place. “Well,” he said, glancing back across the table at Wood, “my beloved Other Half seems to be in need of my services.” He got to his feet.

“I guess that’s my cue to start working on this paper again,” Wood muttered, running a hand through his hair and looking down at the parchment in front of him as though it were dung on the bottom of his shoe.

“Good luck with that,” George said lamely, wishing he had something either more humorous or more sympathetic to say.

“And really, George,” Wood said as George turned to go. “As long as we’re not in practice or in a game, my broom’s yours whenever you want it. Granted that you don't run it into any more goal posts," he added, one corner of his mouth lifting into a crooked grin. "Just come find me in the evening—if I’m not down here or on the pitch I’ll be in my dorm.”

“Right. Thanks,” George said, doubting that he would ever take Wood up on the offer. “See you around, then.”

“See you,” Wood replied, looking down at his paper and sticking the end of his quill in his mouth. George turned and made his way again across the common room. He glanced at the sofa he had been lounging on with the others earlier. Ginny and Luna were fast asleep, Ginny’s head resting on Luna’s shoulder and Luna’s resting on Ginny’s head. Lee was nowhere to be found, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting on the other end of the sofa, their heads bent close, conversing in whispers. Nothing unusual there, George thought as he approached the spiral staircase where Fred and Angelina were sitting, waiting for him.

“Hey there, brother, old buddy, old pal,” Fred said jovially, jumping up and throwing an arm around George’s shoulders. “Listen,” he continued seriously, his voice dropping in register and all pretend jubilation leaving his tone. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“If you’re going to ask me to go soliciting Puking Pasties to the first year dorms because you’ve been banned from entering them for doing that exact same thing,” George began, pretending to be annoyed, “the answer is I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, cut me some slack,” Fred implored, seeming genuinely hurt by the suggestion. “No, no, no. It’s not business-related at all. It’s... it’s—what is it, Angelina?”

“It’s... fun-related!” Angelina put in.

“Fun-related!” Fred repeated enthusiastically.

“A chance at true love!”

“A chance at—okay, you’re right, this is getting ridiculous,” Fred conceded, having realized that Angelina was making fun of him. “Look,” he said, turning to George, “will you go on a date with Katie Bell?”

George blinked.

“Not, like, a date date,” Angelina said, urging Fred to continue.

“No, no, not a date date,” Fred agreed. “You see, Angelina here has a birthday this coming Friday, and I wanted to take her out to dinner.”

“How noble,” George said.

“But...” Angelina prompted.

“But...” Fred continued.

“But we have no money?” George offered.

“What!” Fred cried, sounding offended. “George, please, this is no time for jokes.”

George raised his eyebrows.

“But Angelina had already made birthday plans to get dinner with Katie,” Fred finished hurriedly. “So we thought, why not do both? Why not make it a double birthday date? Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“She fancies you, you know,” Angelina said, grinning at George.

“Does she now?” George said bemusedly, turning and scanning the common room for her. She was sitting in an armchair not far from them, staring at them from behind an upside-down Herbology textbook. When George caught her eye she quickly lowered the book and pretended to read it, her ears turning pink. “Huh,” George said.

“So... what do you say?” Fred asked hopefully.

“Sure, why not,” George said, shrugging. And really—why not? He supposed Katie was beautiful; she was considered by many to be one of the prettiest girls in her year. And George had always been impressed by her skill on the Quidditch pitch. Maybe something could.... But George suddenly experienced a wave of exhaustion that left him too tired to even finish the thought.

“Atta boy,” Fred said, clapping him on the back.

“Now, if you’ll ex—ex—excuse me,” George said, trying and failing to stifle a yawn, “I’m going to go and sleep for one thousand years.”

He ducked out from beneath Fred’s arm, squeezed past Angelina, and made his way up the spiral staircase to his dormitory, his eyelids seeming to droop more with every step. Not much had happened aside from breaking his nose that morning, really, but George still felt, as he entered his dorm, kicked off his shoes, and quickly stripped down to his underwear, that he had just endured one of the longest days of his life. He collapsed on his bed and fell asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

 

******************************************************************************

 

The week passed without much ado. The biggest source of excitement was the escape of Lee Jordan’s pet tarantula and the chaos that ensued after it was found in a first year girl’s bed; meanwhile, Fred’s and George’s profit from their Skiving Snackboxes continued to grow, and after much experimentation (the effects of which included the rapid growth and botched removal of copious amounts of facial hair), the twins finally perfected their latest product, Magical Mustache Miracle Grow.

“Won’t be long before all the first year boys in the school are walking around like miniature Casanovas,” Fred muttered to George as they watched a small Hufflepuff boy trotting away from their place at the Gryffindor table at lunch, a hairy square box tucked under his arm.

“Or miniature Merlins, if we fucked something up,” George said lightly as he pocketed the boy’s galleon. He looked up and saw Hermione glaring at him disapprovingly from across the table. “Oh, come off it, I was  _joking_ ,” George said defensively. “We even went to Flitwick with this one when Fred sprouted muttonchops that wouldn’t stop growing. It’s foolproof.”

Fred and George were in an accelerated N.E.W.T. level Charms class, having both gotten “Outstanding” on their O.W.L.s—after so much out-of-classroom practice in inventing charms for their joke products, the twins were proud to say that it was a class (albeit the only class) they excelled at. Professor Flitwick had taken an interest in the twins and their inventions after witnessing them advertise Headless Hats in a crowded hallway, and since then he approached them after almost every class to ask for updates on their current projects and to offer advice. He had even bought a box of Skiving Snackboxes from them—“For when I don’t feel like going to those dreadful staff meetings!” he had sqeaked.

“Well, speaking of Casanovas,” Fred now said as he turned to George, his brown eyes glinting deviously, “are you ready for tonight?”

George blinked, tearing his gaze away from where it had been idly resting on the profile of Dean Thomas. “Ready for...?”

“It’s Friday, George!” Fred said exasperatedly. “We’ve got ourselves a date!”

“Don’t tell me you two have taken to dating the same person,” Harry said from across the table while Ron nearly choked on his mouthful of baked potato.

“Alas that our twinly bond does not extend quite that far,” George said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Allow me to be more specific, Harry,” Fred intervened, his very voice seeming to contain a certain swagger. “George and I are going on a  _double_  date tonight, with the lovely Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell.”

“Jesus, do you have to tell  _everyone_?” George hissed under his breath, so that only Fred could hear. Fred waved him off impatiently.

“Nice,” Ron said appreciatively. “Where are you guys taking them?”

“You know, I was wondering the same thing,” George said, looking at Fred pointedly. “Seeing as, you know, we don’t have money for a nice Hogsmeade dinner.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about Hogsmeade,” Fred said with a sideways glance at his twin. “Or money, for that matter.”

* * *

“Those little guys really are adorable,” George said as he ducked out of the hole behind the large still-life, struggling to keep his grip on the large cooked turkey he was carrying. “‘Yes, Mr. Weasley!’ ‘Right away, Mr. Weasley!’ Reckon we could employ a few in our shop one day?”

Fred grunted as he hoisted two bags of other various food items over his shoulder, including a case of Butterbeer from the house-elves’ secret stash. “Reckon we could,” he said as he stepped out of the entrance, swinging the painting shut behind him. The pear gave a small giggle. “It’d be one less expense we have to worry about, seeing as they’d never take a wage.”

“Not until Hermione finds out, at least,” George noted as they made their way down the corridor. The enormous turkey suddenly slipped in his hands and he almost dropped it. “They could’ve at least given us a plate for the turkey though, this is ridiculous,” he muttered. Holding the turkey under one arm, George pulled his wand out from within his robes. “ _Wingardium leviosa_.”

With their meal hovering along in front of them, Fred and George made their way up to the third floor. It was dusk; most of the students were lingering in the Great Hall after dinner or on their way to Hogsmeade, and the academic corridors were free of their usual daytime traffic. They approached a door near the end of a dimly-lit hall, and Fred pointed his wand at the doorknob. “ _Alohomora_.”

The door swung open to reveal a small, nondescript classroom, with several rows of wooden desks facing the front and what appeared to be a goat skeleton on display in the corner. 

“We’ll have to do some rearranging, of course,” Fred said, walking briskly into the room. He waved his wand at the velvet curtains that covered the windows on the far wall—the curtains detached from their rods, revealing an expansive view of the lake and the mountains beyond, the bright orange sun setting behind snowy peaks.

“Not bad,” George said appreciatively, helping his twin push four of the desks together. Fred draped the curtains over their makeshift dinner table while George detached a candelabra from the wall and placed it on the table as a centerpiece. They set out plates and silverware (also borrowed from the kitchens), arranged the food on a nearby desk, and were just stepping back to admire their work when they heard a knock at the door. Fred bounded across the room and swung the door wide.

“Welcome, milady!” he cried, taking Angelina’s hand in his and kissing it. Angelina beamed, the million little black braids of her hair swinging as Fred led her inside. George was left facing the doorway, where Katie Bell now stood, grinning widely at him. He felt his stomach twist uncomfortably—was he supposed to go kiss Katie’s hand, too? It seemed like a ridiculous gesture. But no—Fred and Angelina were a couple, he and Katie were not.  _Duh. Get a grip._ Willing himself to snap out of whatever had seized him in those two seconds, George rushed forward to meet Katie.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, smiling warmly and putting a hand rather awkwardly at her back as he led her into the room.

“Starving,” she said. “Where did you guys get all this food, anyway?”

“We made it ourselves, of course!” Fred answered jovially before George could answer; the latter raised his eyebrows. “It’s the least I could do, on your birthday,” he added to Angelina as the two of them began filling their plates with food. George and Katie followed suit, and then with the scraping sounds of wooden desks on stone floors, the four of them sat down at the table.

George sat next to Fred, and Katie took her place opposite him; she caught his eye and grinned again. There really was no doubt that she was beautiful. Her chestnut hair was pulled into an artfully messy braid that draped over one shoulder and her green eyes twinkled from beneath dark lashes, reflecting the flickering light from the candelabra on the table. George looked away and cleared his throat, feeling suddenly restless.

“So how was your birthday, Angelina?” he asked hastily, taking an enormous swig of Butterbeer as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Oh, it was wonderful!” Angelina gushed, her dark skin glowing in the candlelight as she smiled in reminiscence. “Turning seventeen—coming of age—there’s nothing like it. I mean really—being able to Apparate! Not that I could do it in the castle, mind you,” she added, glaring at a point over Fred’s shoulder as though Dumbledore and his anti-Apparition spells were standing right behind him. “Anyway,” she continued, “yeah. I got back a Transfiguration exam that I did quite well on, and I got this necklace from my mum.” She pulled a thin gold chain out from the neck of her sundress; dangling from it was a gold pendant in the shape of a star. “All in all, a pretty good birthday.”

“And it’s not over yet,” Fred added in an silky undertone. Angelina blushed and Katie laughed loudly.

“Oh  _god_ , just get a room, you two,” she teased, looking at George and rolling her eyes dramatically. George smiled weakly back, knowing that this was supposed to be a shared moment of camaraderie between them, but feeling a sudden urge to jump out of his seat and sprint from the room.

He didn’t want to be there.

He had realized it the minute Angelina and Katie walked into the classroom, the minute Fred and Angelina embraced and he was left facing an expectant-looking Katie Bell. As dinner wore on, Fred and Angelina drew closer together and Katie drew closer to him, while a familiar sensation of claustrophobia and constriction continued to advance in George’s mind. Later, when anxiety wasn’t crippling his eloquence, he would have mused that it was as though he had been given a pair of shoes three sizes too small and had been told to run a marathon. At first he tried to alleviate his discomfort with his usual method of telling jokes, but while they certainly entertained the others, they failed to achieve the effect George wanted for himself. So he drank Butterbeer instead, downing his second bottle while the others were still halfway through their first, and growing steadily more sullen as turkey and potatoes turned to bones and skin on their plates.

Something hard pressed on his foot, and he glanced up. Fred was looking at him concernedly, employing an expression the twins had used before in their nonverbal communication.  _What’s wrong? Are you alright?_

George blinked, confused, and glanced back at what he had been unconsciously staring at for some length of time—Fred and Angelina’s hands clasped over the table, their thumbs moving in small circles along each other’s skin. He cleared his throat and smiled at the group.

“Excuse me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m just going to find the loo.”

He walked briskly out of the room, closing the door behind him and exhaling deeply, as though he had been holding his breath all through dinner. Then he quickly set off down the hall towards the restroom.

He knew what he had been feeling as he stared at Fred and Angelina’s clasped hands—it was the same feeling he had gotten when he saw them sitting on the stairs in the common room the previous weekend. There could be no mistaking the jealousy this time, and as he entered the restroom, turned on a faucet, and splashed cold water over his face, he realized that he now understood what it was that he was jealous of.

One of the starkest differences between Fred and George, which only those close to them could particularly distinguish, was the way they dealt with girls. Fred had met his first girlfriend waiting in line to try on the Sorting Hat (it was a turbulent love affair that lasted about five days, cut short mostly due to the fact that the girl was sorted into Hufflepuff and the two of them had no idea how to find each other’s common rooms). Fred was, in the most cliché of terms, a ladies’ man, and George—well, George was not. It was never that he was shy or awkward—though, he thought grimly, thinking about the scene he had just left, he wasn’t so sure about that distinction now—it was that he had simply never been interested in girls and their feminine mysteries. He had always preferred his friends and his popularity over girlfriends, had preferred goofing off with Fred, Lee Jordan, and the other Gryffindor boys in his year over flirting and going on dates, and he had never felt any sort of lack.

And yet there he was, watching his reflection in the mirror as the water dripped hypnotically from the end of his nose and his head reeled slightly from the Butterbeer, his mind flickering back to hazy but recent memories of waking in the night after a suddenly-forgotten dream, an erection pressing into his abdomen like an urgent reminder that he was sixteen years old, goddammit, and he couldn’t ignore his changing desires any longer. It was all he could do to keep from crying out on nights like those, when he wrapped a shaking hand around himself and within just a few brusk strokes came in dizzying waves of release. Afterwards, breathless, he could never seem to escape the feeling of dissatisfaction, the feeling that there was something else—perhaps entirely unrelated—that he was missing. Now, thinking back to the way he felt as he watched Fred and Angelina, he realized what it was. It wasn’t just sex he was aching for, it was another person. A relationship.

So why, then, was he feeling so uncomfortable around Katie? He glared at his reflection in the mirror, his freckles standing out magnificently against his skin as he flushed, furious at himself. Katie was intelligent, funny, beautiful, and an excellent Quidditch player. And she  _liked_  him. Popular as they were, Fred and George had had their fair share of fawning female admirers, but they both had always been down-to-earth and perceptive enough to know that it was merely the idea of them—Fred and George Weasley, the red-headed, wisecracking, and mischief-making twins—that was so attractive. And if any girl seemed to have a preference in her admiration, it had always been towards Fred. To George’s knowledge, Katie Bell was the first girl who liked him— _specifically_  him—and there he was, ruining his date with her by acting so aloof. It had to be nerves, he decided, straightening up and attempting halfheartedly to flatten his hair. This must be what it felt like to be in love, or something. Nodding resolutely to his reflection, and determined to set things right with Katie, he turned on his heel and marched back to the classroom.

* * * 

He entered just in time to see Fred put the last of the seventeen candles in the large chocolate birthday cake they had procured from the kitchens.

“Ah, there you are!” Fred said, igniting the tip of his wand and using it to light the candles. “We didn’t want to start without you.”

“Well, I can’t say I’d have wanted that, either,” George said brightly, striding into the room and taking his seat with the others. He deliberately caught Katie’s eye as he did so, and forced himself to make what he hoped was a grin and not a grimace. Angelina, meanwhile, had run her finger through a small stretch of icing and was sucking on it thoughtfully.

“This is treacle fudge icing,” she declared, her brows furrowed. “I swear there was a cake just like this at dinner last week.”

“Nonsense!” Fred blurted, hastily lighting the last of the candles and putting out the tip of his wand. “This is an original recipe that our great aunt Tessie invented back in her day. Brilliant cook, that one. I can only hope we’ve done her recipe justice.” George caught his eye and Fred hastily looked away. “Well, shall we?”

They sang happy birthday and Angelina blew out her candles, which were in fact joke products the twins had invented themselves and which popped into tiny fireworks when extinguished. George kept up an easy conversation with the others all throughout dessert, reminding himself periodically to catch Katie’s eye or grin at her. Each time he did so she grinned back, or blushed, or giggled, and he supposed it was good that she hadn’t taken him for a complete asshole at dinner.

Later, after the four of them had cleaned up the leftovers and dishes and had returned their makeshift tablecloth to its place on the window rods, they made their way back through the castle towards the Gryffindor common room. It was late, but not so very late for a Friday night; most students were either still at Hogsmeade or attending various dorm parties. The four of them walked in a group for a while, but once they got to the fifth floor Fred and Angelina had drifted together and away from George and Katie, walking arm-in-arm several paces ahead of them. George’s heart started to race. What the fuck was he supposed to do now that he was alone with Katie after all that forced eye contact? He silently cursed the fact that the Gryffindor common room was so far away—the five minutes and two flights of stairs that stood between him and solitude seemed like an eternity stretching out before him. He was just about to launch into a hasty conversation, like he always did when he was uncomfortable, when Katie said,

“You were looking kind of spacey at dinner for a bit there.”

“I... yeah,” George said, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. “I guess I was a bit distracted.”

“By what?” Katie asked, her voice casual.

George glanced sideways down at her, not knowing how to answer since the truth was hardly suitable first-date conversation. She slowly looked up at him; her expression in the dim moving light of the torches on the wall was unreadable. George felt a small lump in his throat that tasted like panic—what should he say?

“By how beautiful you are.”

The words felt like ash in his mouth, and not just because they were so cheesy. He knew that they were true—Katie truly was objectively beautiful—but he felt nothing after saying them except a renewed sensation of tightness across his chest and a newfound urge to sprint far, far away.

Katie’s fingers curled around his. “I like you,” she murmured, her cheek grazing his shoulder as they walked up the last flight of stairs to the seventh floor.

George’s throat had gone incredibly dry.  _It’s the nerves_ , he assured himself desperately,  _it means you like her. Now tell her so._

“I like you too,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded distant, as though in his mind he had already dashed away from the scene.

They rounded a corner and began walking down the corridor with the painting of the Fat Lady at the end. Fred and Angelina had apparently already gone inside.

“Where are—?” Katie began, and then she stopped and giggled. “Oh.”

George followed her gaze. In the shadowy recess of a doorway a bit farther down the hall, he saw a dark shape that within a few steps became Fred and Angelina, arms wrapped tight around each other and kissing hard. George and Katie were close enough now that they could hear the couple’s heavy breathing, Angelina’s quiet moan as Fred dipped his head to kiss her neck. George stopped in his tracks, for the first time that evening breaking into a genuine sweat.

“We should—” he whispered, not knowing what he was trying to say, only conscious of how little he wanted to be witnessing such a scene right now, with Katie by his side and her hand in his.

“Come on,” she hissed, giggling again. “I know where we can go.”

Dazed, George followed her as she dragged him along by the hand like a limp ragdoll. They passed Fred and Angelina—neither of whom seemed to notice a disturbance—and approached a door on the other side of the corridor. Katie drew her wand and pointed it at the lock.

“ _Alohomora_!” The door swung open, and Katie led George inside. It shut again with a click.

George felt that he couldn’t process anything at the moment if he tried. He felt cornered, and couldn’t stop himself from eyeing the door as Katie wandered around the small classroom.

“I had Muggle Studies in here my third year,” she said, inspecting a bookshelf on the far side of the room.

“Did you?” George asked weakly.

“Yeah,” she said, leaving the bookshelf and walking slowly back towards him, not yet meeting his eye. “It was great, actually—it was my first class of the day, and I would always save some fruit in my room to have for breakfast so I could just get out of bed, walk three steps, and be in class.”

She was much too close. “That’s pretty smart,” George breathed.

Katie stopped right in front of him, lifting her head to look him in the eye. In spite of the overwhelming anxiousness he was feeling, George steeled himself and looked right back at her.  _This is what you want_ , he reminded himself dutifully. Katie’s gaze lowered to his lips, then back up to his eyes. Then, hesitantly, she raised herself up on her tiptoes, leaned close, and pressed her lips against his.

George stood still as a rod, his eyes open, his mind blank. After a moment Katie drew back, looking puzzled.

“Um,” she said, “are you going to, like, open your mouth?”

“Oh, right,” he said quickly. Katie pressed her lips to his once again, and this time he allowed her tongue to gently pry his mouth open. She kissed him slowly at first, then in earnest, her tongue moving against his, her arms wrapping tight around his neck. She pressed closer to him, suddenly pushing him up against the wall and grinding her body against his. Feeling helpless, George placed his hands around her waist.

Soon after he had done so, her arms unraveled themselves from around his neck and her hands began moving down his chest. George felt his stomach plunge as she fluttered her hands slowly down his abdomen, lower and lower, until—

“Oh.” Katie drew back, glancing down at her hand resting on the outside of George’s jeans. She turned a deep shade of red as she let her hand fall, and George felt his own cheeks burn hotter than he had ever felt them burn before.

“Um—I—” he stammered, not having a genuine explanation. “Must be the—the Butterbeer.”

Katie avoided his eyes. “It’s okay,” she said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

“Really,” George said earnestly, panic beginning to bubble within him again. “It’s—I—I’m sorry.” He ran a hand desperately through his hair. “It’s not you. I swear it’s not you.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Katie asked halfheartedly, a finger toying suggestively at the button of his jeans. George gulped, scrambling blindly for the right words. “I dunno, I think—I think tonight might just not be my night. The Butterbeer, I—sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s.... Don’t worry about it.”

They stood there for a few seconds, the silence overwhelming.

“Well...” George said awkwardly, “I, uh, listen, I should probably.... Let’s try this again some other time, okay?”

“Sure,” Katie sighed, her voice and expression unreadable. “Yeah, I’m tired anyway.” She still did not meet his eyes.

“Right... well, bye. Sorry. Bye.”

He edged around her and opened the door, and it was all he could do to keep from running the rest of the length of the hallway to the painting of the Fat Lady.

“Banana fritters!” he nearly shouted.

“A little louder next time, why don’t you,” the Fat Lady muttered irritably. The painting swung open and George clambered inside.

* * *

It took several minutes for him to calm down. He paced relentlessly in his empty dormitory, hating himself for having to do it, not knowing why he had to do it, but acutely aware of the constriction in his chest loosening with every step he took. When he started to become dizzy from turning on his heel so much, he collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, allowing a grainy, pulsing kaleidoscope of patterns and colors to cloud his vision until he felt a headache coming on. With it came a flicker of the scene in the classroom with Katie which his ritualistic deep breathing had until then kept at bay, and a sudden wave of self-loathing washed over him as he remembered his awkward hands, the feeling of being crammed inside a tiny box, and his no-good traitor of a penis. He sat up, enraged, overcome with the urge to punch something. He whipped his head around and saw one of the columns of his four-poster staring back at him—mocking him. Before a rational thought had time to state its case, George swung his fist and punched the column with all his might.

Minutes later, after mending his broken knuckle through clenched teeth, George slid off his bed and sank to the floor, resting his forehead on his knees.  _That’s twice in one week that you’ve broken a bone by colliding into a pole_ , he thought grimly.  _Nice work._ Suddenly he lifted his head, the thought of last week’s Quidditch practice stirring his memory.

Oliver.

Oliver Wood and his hazel eyes had told George that he could borrow his broomstick any time. His breathing was shallow again, his good hand still balled up into a fist; he was less anxious than he had been ten minutes previously, but he was not calm. Perhaps a midnight ride around the Quidditch pitch was what he needed—he knew that there really was nothing like flying to take his mind off things, especially at night, with the crisp autumn air filling his lungs and the lights from the castle twinkling like the stars overhead. George ached for it. He stood up and ran a hand through his hair.

Was the offer still good, though? Would Oliver even remember he had made it? George bit his lip, uncertain. Maybe Oliver had just been trying to be nice—he probably never thought that George would take him up on the offer. Still, George hadn’t known him to ever say something he didn’t mean. 

Dubiously making up his mind, George headed quickly towards the door, not wanting to be around once Fred and the others got back from their Friday night exploits. He paused, however, to steal a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. His eyes were tired, his hair standing on end again from having run his hand through it so many times. George hastily tried to flatten it before giving up (Oliver might not even be in his room, after all), sighing resolutely, and exiting the room.

The fifth and sixth year boys lived just below the top floor of their turret of Gryffindor Tower, the girls’ turret being adjacent; the hallway George stepped out into was less of a hallway and more a giant circular room with doors lining the walls and a spiral staircase in the center ascending to the more spacious seventh year dorms above. He bounded up the stairs as quietly as he could. He already knew which of the four seventh year rooms belonged to Oliver, having snuck in several times already that year with Fred to steal and vandalize Percy’s prefect badge. He strode towards the door, took a deep breath, and rapped three times.

“C’m in,” he heard a voice answer.

It took several seconds for George’s eyes to adjust to the dim light in the dormitory, but when they did, he found himself looking in on a room almost twice as large as his own, with five empty four-poster beds lining the walls, all unmade except for Percy’s (who must, George realized, have been with his Ravenclaw girlfriend Penelope Clearwater). A figure was lounging on the sill of one of the large windows on the far wall, silhouetted by the moonlight pouring into the room. George recognized an outline of curly hair.

“George!” Oliver called, waving at him gleefully. “Or, shit, is that Fred? Can’t tell from this distance.”

“You had it right the first time,” George grinned as he stepped towards the window, running a hand through his hair absently.

“Oh, you’re right,” Oliver said, peering into George’s face as he approached. “I can see it now.”

Oliver Wood had certainly looked better. His curls were a floppy chocolate war zone on his head, a whisper of stubble graced the lower half of his olive-toned face, his eyes had dark circles underneath and a trace of drunkenness around the edges. Despite it all, however, he was smiling—a toothy, crooked smile that produced, to George’s pleasant surprise, small dimples that apparently only showed themselves through the shadow created by the angle of his face in the moonlight. Suddenly, George heard himself ask, “How do you tell us apart? Fred and me, I mean.”

Oliver cocked his head, and George felt his cheeks grow hot. What a stupid question.

“Your face is a bit more narrow,” Oliver mused, seeming to seriously consider the question. “Your nose is a bit shorter. Your hair is always sticking up,” his grin grew wider, “and you’ve got a particularly large freckle... right... there.”

He had reached out an arm and laid a finger on a point just above George’s left eyebrow. George stood perfectly still, the warmth from Oliver’s fingertip seeming to spread all throughout his face. Then Oliver sighed contentedly and leaned back against the window once more. George let out a quiet breath. “Come sit with me,” Oliver insisted suddenly, swinging his legs off the deep, cushioned windowsill, pushing aside the two empty bottles that had been sitting in the corner, and patting the space next to him.

“Are you drunk?” George asked, snickering as he hopped up onto the sill and leaned against the window.

“Only a little,” Oliver admitted, waving his hand impatiently. “And it’s just Butterbeer.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Oliver let out a short puff of air through his nose, looking sideways at George and grimacing. “Do you mean to ask me why I’m drinking alone in my dorm on a Friday night?”

For some reason, George had a sudden urge to laugh. After more than five years of knowing Wood, the truth was that he really knew nothing about him at all. On the Quidditch pitch, he was determined, calculating, and a little bit obsessive; seeing him now, drinking alone in his room, slouching and stubbly, George felt a sudden fascination for the boy sitting next to him. The corners of George’s mouth twitched in spite of himself as he wondered what else he didn’t know about Oliver Wood.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out a bit croaky. He cleared his throat. “I guess that is what I’m asking.”

Oliver stretched his arms over his head, yawning as he deliberately prolonged his answer. He was wearing another tight-fitting t-shirt, and George couldn’t help but notice the bulge of his biceps; he looked away quickly. “Remember that Arithmancy paper I was working on last weekend?” Oliver asked. George nodded. “Vector gave me a fucking sixty percent.”

George blinked. “Oh.”

“ _And_ ,” Oliver added hastily, seeming perplexed by George’s lack of reaction, “my dad’s gonna kill me when he finds out. And—and I guess I’m really fucking nervous for my Puddlemere tryout next week. And for our match against Slytherin in twenty-two days.” He sighed and inspected a fingernail. “And, quite frankly, I drink so rarely that I figured I could use a break. I don’t deserve it, but I could use it.”

“Well, you know, drinking’s usually more fun when you’re doing it with other people,” George said lightly, feeling at a loss for how to reply to Oliver’s other confessions. He managed to get another crooked grin out of him.

“So I’ve heard,” Oliver said. “Do you want one, then?” He pulled out his wand, apparently getting ready to Summon one of the several Butterbeer bottles lying on his bed.

“No, actually, I’m alright,” George said. “I’ve actually already had a couple tonight.”

“Oh, have you?” Oliver asked bemusedly, stowing away his wand. “You’d better watch out—first Quidditch practice and now this? If I didn’t know better I’d be worried that you’re starting to become an alcoholic.”

“What—how did you—?” George spluttered, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as he realized Wood had known he had come to practice drunk the previous week.

“It was pretty obvious, really,” Oliver said, grinning as George became even more flustered. “At the beginning you were zigzagging all over the place and running into people—I’d never seen you fly so poorly. I was meaning to yell at you at break, but then, you know.”

“But then I broke my face.”

“Yeah.”

“You still should’ve yelled at me.”

“I could never yell at you.”

The words seemed to fall out of Oliver’s mouth before he could stop them, but instead of seeming alarmed or rueful at having been so forward, he merely raised his eyebrows and gave the tiniest of smiles as he looked down at his hands, as though he was surprised by what he’d said but didn’t regret anything. George’s throat went very dry.

“Individually,” Oliver said after a moment, seeming almost reluctant to clarify his statement. “I yell at you and Fred all the time when you’re goofing off, but you’ve never before merited any kind of reprimand on your own during practice.”

George looked at his knees and nodded, realizing that once again, Oliver Wood had taken from him the ability of knowing what to say.

“Anyway,” Oliver said slowly, “What was your occasion?”

“I—what?” George asked, looking up at him. He had been distracted by the fact that sometime during the course of their conversation, the distance between them had diminished slightly.

“For the Butterbeer. Earlier this evening,” Oliver prompted, looking steadily down at him. The green and gold in his eyes were especially apparent in the moonlight.

“I, um,” George began, wishing he had a different answer, “I had a—a date.”

“A date!” Oliver exclaimed, clapping George on the back, his hand lingering perhaps longer than necessary. “Well, and who was the lucky person?”

“Katie Bell,” George muttered, not meeting Oliver’s eyes.

Oliver let out a loud, unrestrained snicker, then clapped a hand to his mouth, his entire body quaking with laughter.

“ _What_?” George said defensively, turning to face Oliver and staring at him angrily until Oliver’s laughter started catching on, and then giggling in spite of himself. “What’s so  _funny_?”

Oliver’s laughter subsided. “ _I_ used to date Katie Bell,” he said. “Last year.”

“Are you serious?” George asked, his smile fading as he felt an unpleasant knot form in his stomach. “I never knew that.”

“Yeah, well, I never acted any differently towards her on the Quidditch pitch, on principle,” Oliver said importantly, his face suddenly serious.

George paused, wondering briefly if his question would be overstepping his bounds. “And why—why did you guys break up?”

“Oh, she walked in on me and Roger Davies snogging in the locker room,” Oliver said simply. He burst into a fit of silent giggles. “Her face, I just—wow.” He regained control of himself quickly and cleared his throat, becoming serious once more. “Sorry. I might be a little more tipsy than I thought.”

George’s eyes were wide. He had no idea what to make of it—Oliver Wood kissing Roger Davies, the handsome captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team? A shiver ran down his spine. Did that mean Oliver was—?

“I—I didn’t have a great time,” he managed to say, deliberately avoiding discussion of the confession he had just heard. “She must not be my type, or something.”

“Yeah,” Oliver murmured. “Or something.”

George’s heart was pounding, seeming about to burst from his chest as he searched wildly for something to say.

“It’s raining,” he spluttered.

“Mmhm.” Oliver sighed and turned around, gazing out the window. “So it is.” He put a finger to one of the foggy panes and idly traced a pattern. George watched his hand steadily, not daring to breathe. “Why did you come here, George?”

“Um,” George said, blinking rapidly. “To ask if I could take you up on your offer to lend me your broomstick. Wanted to, you know—clear my head.”

“I think it’s a little late for a midnight ride now, don’t you think?” Oliver murmured, turning to look at him. “You’d get all wet.”

“I really would,” George breathed. He was hardly aware of what was being said anymore, only conscious of Oliver looking straight at him with his beautiful eyes. George was close enough now that he could faintly make out a smattering of faded freckles across the light brown skin of his nose. “Much better to stay in here where it’s—”

A distant taste of Butterbeer—warm and sweet—still lingered on Oliver’s lips as he pressed them to George’s. George drew a sharp intake of breath through his nose in surprise, but Oliver stayed where he was. And then, before he could make sense of the half-formed thoughts careening through his head and the warm sensation spreading like wildfire to his every nerve ending, George was kissing Oliver back. His eyes closed and his mouth opened, and he shuddered as Oliver’s tongue grazed the tip of his own. Oliver’s arm snaked around George’s waist, drawing him in close, and George leaned in gladly. He was kissing the other boy harder now; his hand seemed to act on its own accord as it reached up and grabbed a fistful of Oliver’s thick, dark curls, and he felt him smiling in response.

A loud clap of thunder suddenly caused them both to jump in their seats, and they broke apart. George stared wide-eyed at Oliver, who was looking flushed and delirious, and then hastily lowered his eyes to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said.

“It’s alright.”

Oliver opened his mouth again to speak, but the sky suddenly lit up behind him and his attention was drawn to the window. “Wow,” he said dazedly, “would you look at that lightning!”

But George wasn’t listening. His heart was still pounding, his ears still rushing, and he couldn’t process a single thought.

“I have to go,” he muttered, sliding off the windowsill and walking quickly towards the door.

“George, wait— _wait_ ,” Oliver called after him.

“I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” George said hurriedly over his shoulder. He wrenched open the door and quickly shut it behind him. It wasn’t until later, once he was alone in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to interpret the combatting waves of emotion that battered him from every side, that he realized he was smiling.

 

******************************************************************************

 

George had just finished executing a powerful blow to a Bludger, derailing it in its quest to knock Alicia Spinnet off her broom, when he heard the sound of Oliver’s whistle signifying that their practice had come to an end. He whipped his head around and looked at his captain for some sign of approval regarding this newest instance of the top-notch Beating skills George had been showing off all morning. But Oliver was already descending from his position by the goalposts and didn’t give any sign of having seen anything.

The entire practice had been like this; the butterflies that had been fluttering around in George’s stomach since he woke up that morning proved extremely beneficial for his athletic performance, and as he zoomed around the field, defending his teammates with powerful, artfully-executed swings, he looked in Oliver’s direction for some sign of a reaction that never came. Oliver merely hovered by the goalposts like a sentinel for the entire three hours, expressionless, breaking his silence only to bark reprimands and criticism at his team members when they deserved it, and never once addressing George.

At first George hadn’t let it bother him, still too giddy from the night before to take anything else very seriously, but as practice wore on and Oliver’s mouth remained a thin, unmoving line, doubt began to seep in and settle in the core of his chest.

Did Oliver regret kissing him? Had he been offended when George ran out? Or (and this was the thought that made George’s heart capsize and sink into his abdomen) had the entire thing been a result of Oliver’s drunkenness, and therefore meant nothing at all?

Thousands of possibilities, each more worrisome than the next, swarmed through George’s head as he made his way to the locker rooms with the rest of the team. Since that morning he had been planning on talking to Oliver after practice, but now he knew it was a necessity—he desperately needed to know what was going on in Oliver’s head. Fred and Harry changed quickly and Fred turned to George as though to wait for him. George was still in his Quidditch robes, having pretended to be very intent on cleaning his cleats. He waved them on.

“You two go on, I’ll meet you back up at the castle.”

Harry and Fred left, but not before George saw Fred’s gaze slide curiously from George to Oliver and back again, an eyebrow raised quizzically. George thought he saw a corner of his twin’s mouth twitch almost imperceptibly before he turned and followed Harry out of the locker room.

George took a steady breath and turned to face Oliver. He too had not yet changed out of his scarlet robes; he was sitting on a bench near the far side of the room, bent over a hastily-drawn diagram of the Quidditch pitch, moving tiny inked players around with the tip of his wand and muttering to himself. George cautiously approached him and sat down next to him on the bench, peering over his shoulder.

“Make me hit Pucey with my club,” he said, indicating the tiny drawn figures marked GW and AP. “Go on, he’s flying right past me! He’s gonna—oh, nice save.”

“Thanks,” Wood said, a tiny smile flickering on his lips before it vanished again. “I’m thinking about ways to strategize against Slytherin’s Chasers, since their tactics rely so much on ramming into us when we’ve got the Quaffle. Think I’ll need to have one of our girls fly below whichever one’s got the Quaffle in case she gets attacked and drops it.... ’Course, they’ll surely be doing the same thing....” His voice trailed off and he ran a hand absently through his still-windswept curls.

“Listen, Oliver,” George said after a moment, feeling that if it went unaddressed for another second he would surely explode, “about last night—”

“I’m sorry.”

George blinked. “What? I—”

“I’m very sorry about what happened,” Oliver said, his voice unreadable, staring at the diagram on his lap so hard and unblinkingly that George was surprised he wasn’t burning a hole in it. “I was tipsy, and stupid, and I thought—I thought maybe—well, I shouldn’t have assumed we were on the same page. I’m very sorry I kissed you, and it won’t happen again.” He stood up suddenly, and paused. Then he added quietly, “I hope you can still respect me as your Captain, but if not, I’ll understand.” Still without meeting George’s eyes, Oliver stuffed the diagram and his wand into his robes and walked quickly to the wall of lockers on the far side of the room and began fumbling blindly with one of the locks. George could see his hands shaking.

Not quite sure what he was going to do when he reached him, George rose and walked steadily over to Oliver, stopping directly behind him.

“Look at me,” he said gently.

Oliver turned slowly to face him. He seemed to have aged considerably in the past several moments alone; he looked weak and tired, without a trace of the pride and confidence he usually carried himself with. Without a word, George took Oliver’s face in both hands, and before Oliver had time to react beyond widening his eyes in disbelief, George stood on his tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth.

Oliver stood perfectly still for a moment. Then, with a small, weak noise that sounded like a sigh, he leaned into George and fell into the kiss. Their tongues slid against one another, and George was just thinking about how much he wanted to rake a hungry hand through Oliver’s unruly hair when Oliver suddenly pulled back.

“Wait,” he said, swallowing as he caught his breath. “Tell me what this means. Are you—? Do you—?”

“I really like you, Oliver,” George said, staring at Oliver’s chin and not removing his arms from where they were looped around his neck. “And I was so oblivious, I—I had no idea.... But last night it all kind of... made sense.” His voice trailed off lamely, and he felt his cheeks grow hot. “Makes sense now why you’re the only goddamn person who can make me blush,” he added with a grin, looking up at Oliver, who was still gaping wide-eyed at him.

“I thought—” Oliver began in a whisper, then cleared his throat to bring back his voice. “When you ran out, I thought I had really fucked up, that I’d been reading the signs wrong and you didn’t like blokes, and I thought I had—I thought I’d forced myself on you—”

“No, of course not,” George said, his eyebrows furrowing, horrified that he had left such an impression. “I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t know what it all meant, I didn’t know what to think, I just had to be alone for a while....” He paused. “And—and I still don’t know what it all means, really, I don’t know if this makes me gay or—or whatever...." He swallowed hard. "But what I do know,” he said, tightening his grip around Oliver’s neck and looking up at him, “and all I really care about right now, frankly, is that I like you. A lot. I think—” he fumbled for the right words, “I think you’re really sexy, and,” he felt his cheeks burn once again, “and I really like kissing you,” he finished in a mumble. Oliver’s arm unwound from around George’s waist and he cupped his cheek in his large hand, tilting George’s face up and staring intently into his eyes. George didn’t know what he was looking for, but suddenly Oliver’s face broke into a wide grin, and the next thing he knew, Oliver’s smiling lips were pressed against his own once more.

They kissed hungrily, greedily, and George groaned softly as Oliver’s deft tongue traced the outline of George’s lower lip. He bit it softly, and George gasped, raking a hand through Oliver’s thick curls. Doing so seemed to set something off in Oliver—with a snarl, he turned so that their positions were reversed, and pushed George up against the wall of lockers.

“I really—like kissing you—too,” Oliver purred between kisses, grabbing a fistful of George’s hair and pulling until his neck was bared. His mouth left George’s, sprinkling small kisses along his jaw down to his throat. “You had me so turned on out there, the way you were chasing after those Bludgers, and the noises you made when you hit them.” He nibbled George’s neck, causing him to scrabble desperately at Oliver’s back. Then his lips were pressed against George’s ear, his breath hot and and his voice rough as he whispered, “It was really all I could do to sit still on my broom.” His tongue flicked George’s earlobe, his breath sending chills throughout his entire body, and George couldn’t stop a nasally, desperate moan from escaping his lips. With a groan, Oliver pushed him harder against the wall, and George could feel his erection pressing into his abdomen. And suddenly, the hand that was tangled in George’s hair was on his shoulder—both of Oliver’s hands were dragging down George’s chest in a move that caused brief memories from the previous night with Katie to flicker into his mind before they vanished again, too insignificant to distract him from what was happening to him in that moment. One of Oliver’s hands gripped George’s hip tightly while the other dipped lower until it found George’s cock, straining against the unforgiving tightness of his Quidditch pants. His breathing hitched as Oliver slowly rubbed him along his length over the fabric.

“Please,” Oliver murmured against George’s lips, “please, I need to—will you let me—” and then, before George could even begin to process the request, Oliver was kissing down his neck again, down his chest as he lowered himself to his knees at George’s feet. He grasped George’s hips in both hands and looked up at him, his crooked grin appearing strangely devious.

“Is this okay?”

George had almost forgotten how to breathe. His heart began pounding in his chest—not in dread, but in anticipation—as he realized what Oliver wanted to do to him. And then his head jerked forward in a shaky nod, and Oliver’s grin grew wider as his nimble fingers began unlacing the front of George’s Quidditch pants. He pressed a small kiss to the skin above his waistband, and with a few slow tugs, pulled his pants down to his knees.

George immediately felt silly, leaning pantsless and panhandled against the lockers of the Gryffindor changing room. But Oliver let out a low groan at the sight, his forehead pressing to George’s abdomen and his hand wrapping around his cock, and George’s inhibitions escaped along with his ragged exhale. Oliver began stroking him slowly, his thumb smearing precome onto the head of his cock while his lips pressed kisses to his belly, his hips, his thighs, and George struggled to remain standing on two feet. His hands sought Oliver’s head, and he buried his fingers in his thick hair. Oliver looked up at him then with large, overly-innocent eyes, a ghost of a teasing smile on his lips.

“ _Please_ ,” George gasped, and as though he had been waiting for the command all along, Oliver grinned, flicked his tongue across the head of George's cock, and then fit his mouth around him.

A loud moan escaped George’s lips, and his mind went blank. Nothing existed beyond the walls of the locker room—there was only this moment, this sensation, this feeling of his cock sliding in and out of Oliver Wood’s hot mouth. George’s hands grabbed desperately at Oliver’s hair and Oliver hummed in appreciation, sending vibrations that seemed to travel up George’s spine and straight to his brain, threatening to send him over the edge.

A stream of curses tumbled out of his mouth without his even noticing, interspersed with gasps and groans. Oliver was relentless, sucking and humming and taking him down further and further until his nose brushed George's pubic hair. George gasped, one hand squeezing Oliver’s fingers and the other raking through his curls as Oliver quickened his pace. Heat soon began to pool in his groin, and his whole body began to tremble until finally he tipped over the edge, and his body seemed to implode as his orgasm rocked him to his core. George cried out, tightly squeezing Oliver’s hand, waves of heat rippling from his groin to the tips of his fingers and toes. Oliver swallowed noiselessly and pulled away, licking away the drop of come that still clung to the head of George’s cock. He pressed a kiss to George’s belly and looked up at him, a small grin on his red lips. He then eased George’s Quidditch pants up, but couldn’t retie the laces before George’s knees gave way and he slid slowly down the wall in a daze. Oliver grabbed him around the waist before he reached the floor and pulled him into his lap.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, brushing ginger hair out of George’s closed eyes. George groaned and buried his face into Oliver’s neck while Oliver stroked his back with his fingertips. They sat in silence for a few seconds until George felt he had a firm enough grasp on his thoughts to form a sentence.

“That was—that—fucking—”

He broke off, apparently having overestimated his coherency. To better express himself, George sat up and kissed Oliver hard, their teeth clacking together, tasting himself on Oliver’s tongue. Oliver smiled against his lips, still tracing steady lines along his spine. The kiss deepened and George shifted his position in Oliver’s lap, straddling him and pushing him against the wall.

“Come on now, don’t tease me like this,” Oliver muttered, pulling away. “I need to go take a very cold shower.”

“I’m not teasing,” George said gruffly, pressing his lips to Oliver’s again. And he wasn’t—he thrilled to the thought of getting Oliver off, of seeing his stoic Quidditch captain in his most vulnerable and, George guessed, his most beautiful state and he, George, being the cause of it. Lust making him even bolder than usual, he leaned in and whispered as much in Oliver’s ear. Oliver made an odd choking sound, his eyes growing wide as George began unlacing his Quidditch pants.

“You don’t... have to...” he managed to get out, while at the same time shifting on the floor to allow a better angle for George to reach into his trousers and pull out his cock. The panic George felt, kneeling between Oliver’s legs and staring wide-eyed at his straining erection, lasted but a split second. He leaned into Oliver, their lips meeting at the same moment his hand wrapped around his thick cock, and the first thing George realized was how easy this was, how naturally it came to him. He didn’t even have to think as he slowly began stroking Oliver, his fist twisting slightly at the top, the way he liked it when he did this to himself. Oliver moaned against George’s lips, his hands strengthening their grip on his disheveled red hair as George increased his pace.

His lips left Oliver’s and he imitated what Oliver had done to him earlier, pressing small kisses along his jaw and settling at the nape of his neck. Oliver’s breathing was ragged; he swore loudly when George bit his neck and then began sucking on the spot.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna—George—" Oliver spluttered, " _fuck—_ please don’t stop.”

Grinning into Oliver’s neck, George strengthened his grip and increased his speed until Oliver began clawing at his back, his eyes shut tight, an incoherent string of curses falling from his mouth as he came hard, spilling over onto George’s hand.

They stayed like that for a while, both of them catching their breath, and then George drew his wand from his robes and muttered a cleaning charm that evaporated the mess between them.

“Thanks,” Oliver breathed, adjusting his trousers and lacing them up. He leaned against the lockers, his expression peaceful, smiling absently while his eyes roamed shamelessly around George’s face, as though connecting a constellation in his freckles. George self-consciously attempted to flatten his hair, which he knew was standing on end from Oliver’s hands raking through it.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he said jokingly when his hair refused to stay down. “I look like I just got a bloke off in a locker room. Or like I’ve just rolled out of bed.”

“You always look like you’ve just rolled out of bed,” Oliver said, grinning. “You look like you.”

They made their way back up to the castle together in the light of an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon, broomsticks over their shoulders and knuckles brushing as they walked.

* * * 

The afternoon was seeping into early evening, the last of the sun’s rays still peeking out from behind the trees of the Dark Forest on the horizon, and George was lying on his stomach on the grassy shores of the lake, propped up on his elbows as he tried in vain to concentrate on his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework. He had been there for a couple hours already, wanting, like the dozens of other students scattered about the Hogwarts grounds, to enjoy one of the last relatively warm days of autumn before winter crept into the air. He had also been trying to avoid Fred, knowing he owed him an explanation for his strange behavior, knowing that a confession needed to accompany the explanation—but before he could admit anything to his twin, George knew he first had to admit it to himself.

He had to admit it made sense.

How many times had he caught himself staring at Cedric Diggory over at the Hufflepuff table during meals? Blaise Zabini? Cormac McLaggen? Oliver? How many nights had he cast furtive glances towards Lee Jordan when Lee changed into his pajamas before bed? When watching Quidditch matches, had he always paid more attention to the muscles and movements of male players rather than the game itself? And what about his idolization of Johnny Depp, an American Muggle actor George had first seen when Lee had him watch the film  _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ in their second year? It was an admiration which Fred still didn’t understand but which George now did, finally recognizing it for what it was: a celebrity crush.

And then, of course, there was the fact that, now that he thought about it, he had never truly been attracted to any girl; he had often pretended to flirt with them because the convention of his and Fred’s popularity had mandated it, but he always managed to wiggle out before things got too personal, running off to cause mischief with Lee Jordan while Fred tried getting to second base. And when his limited dealings with girls finally did get personal—namely his escapade with Katie Bell the previous evening—well, the outcome of that situation pretty much spoke for itself, George mused.

He took a deep breath and let his eyelids droop, letting his mind wander to the furtive, chaste kiss Oliver had pressed to his lips outside George’s dormitory after they had walked back from the locker room. The corners of George’s mouth twitched as he remembered the words Oliver had whispered in his ear before departing up the spiral staircase to his own dormitory.  _I think we’ve gotten the order turned around, but is now still an appropriate time for me to ask you out on a date?_

“Napping on the job, are you?”

George’s eyes snapped open. Fred was standing over him, wearing a green knit sweater with a yellow “G” on the front, a textbook under his arm and his usual boyish grin on his face.

“Nah, ’course not,” George said as Fred sat down on the grass next to him. “Just, you know, contemplating the intricacies of the art of defense. Prep-work, you might call it.”

“I hear you. Fuck this paper, though,” Fred said, tossing aside his own Defense textbook he had brought. “I’ve been trying to start it all afternoon, and I just feel like vomiting every time I think about it. Inferi have got to be the nastiest creatures on this good green earth.”

“Who gave those fuckers the right to exist?”

“Let’s find out who the sick bastard was who invented them and give him a box of Puking Pasties. With love from Fred and George.”

“Could’ve been a woman.”

“You’re right. It probably says in the textbook, but I’m not opening that thing any more today. Anyway,” Fred said, yawning and stretching his arms over his head, “I thought I might find you out here. Getting kinda nippy, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. Speaking of which, are you wearing my sweater?”

“Couldn’t find mine,” Fred muttered, glancing down at the large knitted “G” on his chest. George didn’t need to ask why Fred hadn’t just chosen something else to wear rather than pulling from George’s wardrobe; he was the only one who knew how homesick Fred always became at this time of year, and how wearing their mother’s handmade sweaters comforted him. “Besides,” Fred continued, resuming his normal tone, “I thought it’d be fun to pull the old switcheroo prank, seeing as we haven’t done it properly in years. Angelina almost smacked me when I walked up to her in the common room earlier and sat on her lap.”

George laughed loudly, imagining the look on her face. “How is Angelina?” he asked, sitting up and brushing grass off his back. “Did you guys have a good time last night?”

“We did indeed,” Fred said, winking.

“Congratulations.”

“But in all seriousness,” Fred said, seeming to regret his crudeness, looking down at his hands and smiling as he continued. “I—I don’t know what it is about her. She’s just... she’s just....” He furrowed his eyebrows, seeming genuinely angry with himself for not being able to think of the perfect word to describe Angelina. “Breathtaking.” He didn’t cast a challenging glance at his twin the way George knew he would have done to anyone else; Fred knew better than to think George would laugh. “She’s so perceptive, and fiery, and she just has these  _ideas_ , George, just, like, the stuff that goes through her head.... I feel like I could spend all day just  _listening_  to her.” His eyes were wide and his cheeks were flushed, the way Fred always looked when he set aside his usual joking manner and spoke passionately about something. George’s heart seemed to swell just watching him.

“You really love her, Freddie, don’t you?”

Fred looked up at him, a small grin flickering slowly to his face. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I think I do.”

George paused. “Do you want my advice?” he asked carefully.

“Always.”

“You need to start being more truthful to her.” George looked steadily at his twin. “About our money situation. And the fact that, you know, we got that food from the kitchens last night rather than making it ourselves. You lie compulsively when you’re around her, Fred, and I know that’s always been a nerves thing for you, but if you really want things to get serious with Angelina, you’re going to have to start telling her the truth.”

Fred continued staring stony-faced at the ground for a moment, and then looked back up at George, his face set in determination. “You’re right. You’re right,” he said. “I’m an idiot. I just—I just really want her to like me. I want her to know I can... not  _provide_ for her—she’d never hear that, she’s too independent—but I want her to know I can, you know, be there for her. That I  _am_  there for her. I don’t want her to think I’m some no-good boyfriend who couldn’t afford her a birthday present or a nice dinner.”

“Fred,” George said gently, “mate, you know, I’m pretty sure this whole school knows we’re not the richest family. And she chose you anyway. I mean, you said yourself she’s brilliant; do you think someone like her would care so much about your—your monetary shortcomings?”

“No,” Fred said slowly. “You’re right. You’re definitely right. I’ll... I’ll stop with the lying.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the lake lapping up onto the grassy shores and the occasional croak of a bullfrog beginning its nightly chant.

“Well, and what about you?” Fred asked then, turning to grin at George. “I still haven’t heard about your night. Did you and Katie have fun?”

“Um,” George said, knowing that the truth was going to come out soon, but feeling much more at ease than he thought he would have been. It was only Fred, after all. “I dunno,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We went into an empty classroom and snogged for a bit, but it, ah, didn’t have the happiest of endings.”

“No?”

“No.”

Fred nodded, pursing his lips. "And did you have any better luck with Oliver?"

George's jaw literally dropped.

“You can't be serious," he said, and Fred's face split into a grin. "You  _knew_?"

“Twin stuff, Georgie,” Fred said breezily. "Probably knew even before you did, I reckon."

"I reckon you did, to be honest," George said, laughing. And then, without knowing why, he kept laughing. He felt light as air, happier there in that moment than he had ever felt in his life. Suddenly a weight crushed him and Fred’s arms were around him.

“I'm fucking proud of you, you hear?” he said, his voice muffled against George's shoulder. And then, before George could tease him for being sappy, "I mean, who knew your ugly mug could snag someone like Wood?"

"The world works in mysterious ways," George said sagely, and they stayed like that, laughing by the lake, until the sky grew dark and the stars appeared one by one to illuminate their path back to the castle.

 

******************************************************************************

 

It’s funny, George thinks, how quickly everything changes. The last of the crimson October leaves have fallen to the ground, the crisp autumn air has been replaced by a sharp winter chill, and George finds himself strangely warm, shuffling across the snowy courtyard, hand in hand with his boyfriend.

“Come on,” Oliver says, his voice muffled slightly by the scarlet and gold scarf tucked under his nose. “I know what’ll take off the chill.”

George casts a sideways glance at him, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Oh please, I meant  _hot chocolate_. Don’t be perverse.” George can't see his mouth, but he can tell from the crinkles around his hazel eyes that Oliver is smiling. A warmth spreads through George’s belly, whether from Oliver or from the idea of hot chocolate, he can't quite tell.

“That sounds perfect.” He squeezes Oliver’s hand as they reach the other end of the courtyard and step into the castle, calmly making their way through the throng of people scurrying to their next class.

It hasn’t taken long for George to feel comfortable holding Oliver’s hand in public, mostly because it never really illicited the attention he thought it would (except for the disappointed glances groups of passing girls sometimes sent in their direction). To George’s bemusement, Fred wasn’t the only one unsurprised by his coming out. When Lee was let in on the news, he nodded steadily the entire time George was talking and continued to do so after he had stopped. “Well?” George asked uncertainly.

“Oh, sorry,” Lee said. “Did you want me to act surprised, or something?”

A few days later, Harry witnessed Oliver plant a chaste kiss on George’s lips one morning before heading out onto the Quidditch pitch for practice. George glanced anxiously at Harry to gauge a reaction—eyebrows lifting towards his hairline, Harry seemed rather shocked at first, and then not at all. He grinned at George before shouldering his broomstick and marching out onto the field after Oliver.

From Hermione there was an airy “And in other news, the sky is blue” without looking up from the parchment she was scribbling on, while next to her Ron gave a whoop of laughter and a “So  _that’s_ why you were so obsessed with that Jimmy Deep Muggle!” Even Katie Bell, after staring wide-eyed as she passed George and Oliver holding hands in the hall one day, hissed loudly to Alicia as soon as she thought she was out of earshot, “Well  _that_ certainly explains a whole fucking lot.”

George’s favorite reaction by far, however, was Ginny’s. She had sprung out of nowhere one afternoon when he wandered into the Gryffindor common room and jumped on top of him, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. “Fred’s just told me!” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Oh George, I’m so  _happy—_ you know it’s the same with me, right? Me and Luna?” George peeked through Ginny’s hair and had seen over her shoulder the dreamy-eyed Ravenclaw girl standing a few feet away, grinning at them. The realization washed over him, and several minutes passed before George would put Ginny down again.

Now, he and Oliver walk up the stairs to the seventh floor in a comfortable silence, their fingers entwined and their sides pressed together. “Baubles,” Oliver says to the Fat Lady when they reach her painting. It swings open and the two of them clamber into the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, already decked with wreathes and floating Christmas candles, with groups of students lounging about after their Friday afternoon classes. George and Oliver make their way to the opposite side of the room, entering the little kitchenette near the dormitory staircases.

“Right,” Oliver says, putting his hands on his hips importantly. “First we have to find—” he darts to the pantry and begins rooting around, muttering to himself. “Aha!” he says after a moment, pulling out a thick bar of dark chocolate. “And now the pan—let’s see here....”

George hoists himself onto the countertop next to the stove and leans against the cool tiled wall behind him, smiling to himself as he watches Oliver bustling around the kitchen. His eyes are suddenly drawn to a patch of dark blue on Oliver’s chest, just above the Gryffindor emblem on his robes—his Puddlemere United badge, which he's wearing every day for over a month now, ever since he learned that he had made the team. 

A smile flickers to George’s lips as he remembers that morning: Oliver was restless all week, recounting endlessly to anyone who would listen (George) his tryout and all the mistakes made (most of which were imagined, George figured, since a missed save was never mentioned among Oliver’s list of things that went wrong). When the day finally came, George rose before dawn and, still clad in his pajamas, made his way to the owlery, where sure enough, Oliver was already pacing back and forth. George took Oliver’s hands in his own to stop him from biting his nails, and they waited there, listening to the soothing hoots of roosting owls until Oliver’s fate flew in on snowy white wings. Oliver burst into tears when he read the news, and George held him, and laughed until his sides hurt, and kissed him over and over until, breathless, he pulled away, looked hard into Oliver’s eyes, and breathed, “Let’s go celebrate, shall we?” Ten minutes later, he was casting a hasty silencing charm around Oliver’s four-poster so as not to wake his roommates, and they fell into bed, making love for the first time together while the sun rose steadily outside Gryffindor Tower. Since then, the bruises on George’s hips have become more or less permanent, never quite getting a chance to heal before the next time Oliver’s thumbs are pressing hard into his skin, creating the marks anew. And George finds that he doesn't really mind—quite the opposite, in fact.

“ _Un poco de pimentón, por supuesto_...” Oliver's now muttering, grabbing a small jar of what looks like cayenne pepper from the cabinet above the stove and stirring some into the pan of hot chocolate. “ _Te le gusta,_ ¿ _sí_?”

“ _Por supuesto_ ,” George replies, the words sounding harsh and unnatural wrapped in his stubborn English accent. Oliver sniggers, then dumps in another tablespoon of cayenne.

When he and Oliver started dating, George was astounded by how much there was to learn about this boy he had so eagerly welcomed into his life. Oliver’s adopted parents were wealthy but kind-hearted purebloods from Liverpool, both travelers; on an expedition to Colombia one summer, they had come across a poor young witch with a newborn baby she couldn’t afford to take care of, and the Woods, unable to have children of their own, had agreed to adopt him. It was one of the surest signs of his magical abilities, Oliver told him, when one day as a toddler he had begun speaking fluent Spanish with a perfect Colombian accent, though his adopted parents had spoken nothing but English to him until then. Since hearing that story, George became determined to learn the language as well, and he has yet to find a complaint about Oliver’s teaching style, which is based mostly on talking dirty to him in Spanish while they fuck. George decides it's his favorite way to learn a language, if not quite the most effective.

Oliver gives the hot chocolate one last stir, then bends low over the pan and inhales deeply. “It’s perfect,” he says matter-of-factly. He glances at George. “¿ _En español_?”

“ _Eres perfecto_.”

“That means ' _you’re_ perfect.'”

“Me?”

“No, me.  _Eres_ means ‘you are.’”

“I am?”

“No—”

“I’m messing with you.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I meant  _eres_.”

“Sure you did,” Oliver chuckles, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above the stove and pouring the hot chocolate into them. He gives one to George, who cups it in his hands and lets the warmth seep into his palms before blowing on the surface of the liquid and taking a small sip. It's still much too hot, but he can tell it's delicious, especially when the cayenne burns pleasantly at the back of his throat on the aftertaste. Oliver, meanwhile, grabs his own mug and takes a gigantic gulp. His cheeks redden, but his face betrays no sign of pain until he swallows and says, “Well, I don’t know what I expected.” He produces an ice cube from the tip of his wand and quickly pops it in his mouth.

Oliver’s complete and utter recklessness in everything that doesn't involve Quidditch was another thing George came to learn about his boyfriend. He also learned about his phobia of fish, his appreciation for Muggle fashion, and the meditation ritual he performed on his bed before each Quidditch game. He learned about his extreme ticklishness, the small birthmark shaped oddly like a rabbit on his thigh, the way he chewed his lower lip when he was concentrating, and the way he looked in the morning, eyelids fluttering groggily when George woke him with a kiss on the nose.

“You’ve been quiet,” Oliver now observes, his gold-flecked eyes gazing at George over the rim of his mug, sipping gingerly on his hot chocolate. “That’s not like you.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” George says, so lost in his thoughts that he forgot to carry on a conversation. Oliver steps toward the counter George is sitting on, settling between his knees. Setting aside his hot chocolate, George wraps his legs around Oliver’s waist and loops his arms loosely around his neck, grinning.

“What are you thinking about?”

George thinks for a moment. “This,” he says finally. “You and me, I mean. Us. This.”

Looking puzzled, Oliver asks, “What about this?”

“I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like you.  _Te amo_.”

Oliver’s smile flickers. “Erm, that doesn’t really mean ‘I  _like_  you,’ George,” he says slowly, his cayenne-scented breath warm on George’s face.

“I know,” George says, and then he leans forward and presses his lips against Oliver’s. Oliver inhales sharply as George’s words hit him, and he draws him closer, one hand wrapping tight around his waist and the other burying deep in his ginger hair. They kiss slowly, as though they have all the time in the world to do this—and in a way, George realizes, they do. There will be time to learn everything about each other, time for more desperate fumblings on each other’s four-posters, time to kiss each other with soft, scorched lips on kitchen countertops and soak in each other’s warmth.

Finally, George pulls away. He lifts a hand to Oliver’s face, brushing his thumb along his cheekbone as he looks hard at him and asks, “Want to go have a snowball fight?”

Oliver’s mouth lifts into a crooked grin, his eyes flashing deviously. “ _You’re on_.”

He lifts George easily off the countertop and kisses him again before setting him down on the tiled floor. “I love you, too,” he whispers. Then they race out of the Gryffindor common room, down six flights of stairs, and through the castle’s oak front doors, into a world blinding white with snow.

 


End file.
